


Something Sweet, Something Rotting

by vanishresponse



Category: The Folk of the Air - Holly Black
Genre: Coercion, Drugged Sex, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Multi, Public Humiliation, Public Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-31
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:41:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26217307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishresponse/pseuds/vanishresponse
Summary: Taryn hosts her first revel for Locke and his friends. It doesn't go the way she plans.
Relationships: Taryn Duarte/Locke
Comments: 7
Kudos: 35
Collections: Femsub Semi-Flash 2020





	Something Sweet, Something Rotting

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LamiaCalls](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LamiaCalls/gifts).



Locke comes up to her as she finishes giving new instructions to the musicians. The revel is running long into the night, and even the Folk are growing tired of dancing. The music that starts now is softer, heralding the beginning of the revel's end.

When Taryn looks at Locke, he smiles.

"You look tired," he says. Those are the first words that he's spoken to her in hours, but his eyes are so soft that she can't help but forgive him a little. When he tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture is so solicitous that her heart leaps.

He's right; she is tired. 

They’ve been carousing since dawn. All she wants is for the two of them to go back to their quarters, where she can get away from the noise of the revel and her duties as the host. This is her first time hosting for his friends, and it's exhausting; she just wants to sink into his arms and rest.

But that's not what he wants to hear.

"I'm fine," she says, and Locke smiles at her as if she's said something clever.

"I’m glad to hear it," he says. He grabs a winecup from a servant's tray and presses it into her hands. "Have a drink with me, Taryn."

The wine is deep gold; when she raises the cup up to her face, the scent is tantalizingly sweet. It smells like ripe apples, but with a strange note to it. She recognizes the scent and freezes.

Locke's eyes glint with amusement. "Is something wrong?"

"This is faerie wine," she says. Wine pressed from faerie fruit, with all the same effects. "I can't drink this."

"Why not?" he asks. He sounds disappointed. "No one else here would hesitate. Didn't you say you wanted to live like the Folk, Taryn?"

The music hits a lull, and his voice carries. She realizes that his friends are watching and listening. Maybe he told them to, just so that he would have an audience for another one of his games.

She’d hoped—selfishly—that his schemes for the night would target someone else.

If she refuses to drink, it'd be just another reminder that she's a mortal, that she doesn’t belong among the Folk. It'd undo all the hard work she's done by organizing the revel and being courteous even to the Folk that condescend to her. And of course, Locke would use her refusal to hurt her, the way he uses any sign of weakness or hesitation.

She manages to smile. "I was just surprised, that’s all. Of course I'm going to drink."

Locke won't hurt her, not seriously. He's not cruel in the same way that Cardan or Nicasia are—he just wants to see what she'll do.

She holds onto that thought as she drinks.

The taste of the wine bursts onto her tongue, sweeter and richer than anything she's ever tasted. She only intends to take a small sip, but the cup is dry before she knows it.

Locke takes the cup from her, and she smiles at him. She can't remember why she was so worried. Her head feels light. Warmth and joy spread through her body, all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes.

She wants to keep feeling like this.

"Is there more?" she asks, and Locke laughs.

She’s struck anew by how beautiful he looks, with his red hair shining in the lamplight and his bright eyes. She wants to run her fingers along the curve of his cheek. But he waves at a servant to refill the cup, and her attention is distracted as faerie wine pours into the cup.

Locke drinks and presses his lips to hers. Wine spills from his lips into hers; she swallows it greedily and then licks the inside of his mouth, hoping for more. She feels him smile. He takes another sip and feeds it to her, and then another, giving her barely any time to breathe in between.

Somehow, they end up on the couch. He's pinned over her, his body pressed against hers; her head grows lighter with every kiss. She winds her fingers through his hair, feeling more in love with him than she's ever been.

Locke sets the cup aside. He sits down beside the couch, and Taryn frowns. "Why'd you stop?"

"I'm getting bored," he says, smiling wryly.

She feels like that should bother her more than it does. That thought is easily discarded, though.

"What if I feed you some wine with my mouth?" she says. She gives him what she hopes is a seductive smile; she's never tried to seduce him outside of their bedroom, but right now, she feels wild and unrestrained. She feels like someone who can do anything.

"Maybe," Locke says, looking amused. He glances around. When he looks back at her, she sees mischief sparkling in his eyes. "Actually, I can think of something else you can do to make things fun for me. And for everyone else here, as well."

"What is it?" she asks, curious.

He kisses a trail from her collarbone to her ear. "You can let me pass you around."

She frowns. "Pass me around?"

He laughs. "Some of my friends want to know what it’s like to fuck you."

The coarseness of his words penetrates through her haze of pleasure. She stares at him.

"They're curious what you're like," he says.

Taryn hesitates.

Locke grabs the winecup and presses it to her lips. The taste of faerie wine blots away her hesitation. He pulls up her dress and reaches between her legs. When he rubs at her clit, the pleasure melds with the glowing joy of the wine. She feels like she’s ablaze with pleasure.

"Don't you want to make us happy?" he asks.

"Yes," she says, her voice breathless. He smiles at her again.

He pulls his hand away, leaving her wet and unfulfilled.

"That's just to get you ready," he explains. He kisses her, the taste of wine still on his lips, and then he calls over his friends.

After that, it's a blur. The Folk come to her, kissing her, fingering her, eating her out, and riding her. Sometimes, they take turns, letting one of them have her; sometimes, several of the Folk touch her at once. The pleasure of their touch blends in with the warmth of the wine, and she comes over and over again. Her limbs are so light that it feels like she's floating, and she's wet between her legs from her own pleasure and from all the times she's been licked and spilled in. When she looks over at Locke, he’s watching with bright eyes, his pants pulled down and his hand moving up and down his cock.

It's easy to let her thoughts unravel, to give in to the feeling of bodies pressed against her and the pleasure humming through her. Taryn cries out from ecstasy, over and over, and she only briefly wonders why her voice makes it sound like she is in pain.

In the lull between revelers, Locke rewards her with more faerie wine. Sometimes he dribbles it into her mouth from the cup; sometimes he feeds her from his lips or his fingers. Once, he spills some on the floor and has her crawl down from the couch to lick it up. When she rises, her head swimming at the taste of the wine, he presses her face to his crotch, directing her with a hand at the back of her head to rub against his cock. The feel of his cock against her face makes her moan.

Then, he lays her down again and calls the next reveler.

When the guests have all had their fill, Locke settles over her face and slips his cock in between her lips.

At first, she thinks he wants her to blow him. But instead, he starts to move on his own, thrusting in and out of her mouth as if he were between her legs, his hands cradling her head and positioning her to suit him. His thrusts are rough, and they should be uncomfortable, but the rhythm and the pressure feel sweet instead, just like everything else.

Locke comes into her mouth with a groan. The taste of salt fills her mouth.

The world snaps into focus. She's sprawled on the couch, sore and sticky between her legs. Her dress is hitched up and has been ripped along the shoulder. And Locke has just passed her around to near-strangers, letting them use her like a toy, and fucked her in public after he drugged her.

Perversely, she thinks that this isn’t how she planned the revel to go.

Locke pulls his cock out of her mouth. She swallows the come in her mouth, not because she wants to, but because if she opens her mouth to spit it out, she might scream. When she looks at Locke, he smiles unrepentantly.

"You have a lovely mouth, Taryn," he says. When he reaches forward to brush her lip with his thumb, she flinches. He stops.

She pushes him off of her. He just smiles. He’s already had his fun, she thinks.

"I'm tired," she says. Her words sound so steady and polite it surprises her. "I'm going to go to bed early."

"Of course," Locke says, dipping his head.

Behind her, someone laughs. Taryn pretends not to hear.

She walks out of her own revel with her head held high, the way Oriana taught her; she ignores her torn dress, the stickiness between her legs, and the whispers behind her—all the incontrovertible evidence of what has happened.

* * *

In her room, she calls the servants to prepare her a bath. Only when she's washed off the stink of sex and wine does she allow herself to cry.

Locke joins her in bed later that night. She wakes to his body settling against hers, warm and naked.

He smells like faerie wine. She turns away.

"Are you still angry at me?" Locke asks. She can hear the smile in his voice.

Other people's feelings are just spices to him. She knows that; she's accepted that. It shouldn't hurt to hear how little he cares about her feelings.

"You drugged me," Taryn says. She doesn't want to give him the satisfaction of hearing how upset she is, but her voice trembles anyway. "You made me—"

She stops.

"What did I make you do, Taryn?" Locke says. He sounds curious.

She stays silent. There's no way to finish that sentence without amusing him and hurting herself. Locke sits up. 

"Don't be upset," he says. "You were dazzling back there. So wild and unrestrained and lovely, with the taste of faerie wine on your lips." He traces a finger teasingly along her lips, and she hates how she doesn't want to pull away.

"I enjoyed everything about you," he continues, laughing. "So did our guests. They'll be talking about you for weeks. And you'll be appearing in some of their dreams too, for sure."

For a few moments, she can’t speak.

"You promised to love me," she says at last. Her words sound like more of a plea than she intends.

"Until the day I die," Locke agrees. He kisses her, grabbing onto her wrists so she can't push him away.

"I'm only giving you what you want, Taryn," he says, his voice soothing. He sounds like he’s talking to a frightened pet, she thinks. "Tonight, you were the center of the revel. The Folk all gave you their bodies and their admiration—and maybe some of them will give you their love. You'll live on in their stories, as well. Isn't this what you married me for?"

Her heart pounds in her chest. When he reaches beneath her shift, she doesn't push him away.

* * *

Locke is gone in the morning. The sunlight shining through the window hurts her eyes. 

She rises from bed and sees herself in the mirror, exhausted and hollow-eyed; her neck is purpled from kisses, from Locke in the night and from—the others. Watching herself in the mirror, she runs her fingers along those marks; they don't feel any different from the rest of her skin.

One of Locke's stick-like servants stops by with a tray of breakfast: blackberries and toast, with a small glass jar of jam. When she opens the jar, the smell of faerie fruit hits her, rich and unmistakable.

There’s a knife on the tray for spreading the jam, waiting for her to take it.

"Did Locke tell you to bring this?" she asks.

The servant nods.

She sends him away and looks down at the tray. It's a taunt, or a test—or knowing Locke, it's both.

She can hear his voice in her mind. _Can you truly live like the Folk, eating and drinking and loving as we do? Or are you too afraid?_

Taryn picks up the knife.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Bustle for betaing! <3


End file.
